


Words Unspoken

by trustingHim17



Series: Moving On [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock is a Brat, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23885305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: After an argument forces Watson to pack his bags barely a year after Holmes' return, he is left believing the Hiatus changed them both too much for their friendship to withstand. Deals with PTSD and depression.
Series: Moving On [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719565
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

He limped his way up the stairs, the argument still ringing in his mind even as he sank down onto his bed. He had been in a low mood for days, nightmares at all hours had left him exhausted, and the weather was making his leg ache. Those were the least of his worries, however. Had he really said all that? Anger and hurt turned to shame as he put his head in his hands.

Even before Holmes’ return the year before, they had never had an argument such as this, and Watson knew it was completely his fault. Holmes was acting no differently than he always had when between cases, but lack of sleep and worry about Holmes as he practically glued himself to his chemistry set had resulted in Watson completely losing his temper, shouting back things one should never say to a friend, much less to his only close friend. The friendships he had enjoyed with Lestrade and a few others had never compared to the one he shared with Holmes, and he had just destroyed it. Over ten years of friendship: utterly destroyed in ten minutes. The writer in him tried for a brief chuckle at the symmetry, but it never reached his expression.

If only he had just kept his mouth shut! Holmes rarely ate anyway, no matter if they were on a case or not. He shouldn’t care whether his flatmate missed another meal…except, he did. He was a doctor, first and foremost, and he knew it was not healthy to skip too many meals. He also recognized that Holmes was fighting off a Black Mood, and he wanted to help. When Holmes had shot down supper at Simpson’s—and anything else except continuing to fill the room with noxious fumes from his chemistry set—Watson had had to try—and look where it had left him.

He couldn’t change the past, he told himself, no matter how much he wished to, so now it only remained to decide where he was going to go. Their argument had ended with Holmes, without ever looking up from his chemistry table, snapping at him to get out and leave him alone. His dearest friend wanted nothing to do with him.

It was Reichenbach all over again, only several times worse. Holmes’ death had been hard enough, but knowing that he had misjudged their friendship so badly, that Holmes would want him gone just because of an argument, topped even that. He found himself floundering, sinking into the haze to which he had fallen after Mary died.

He was alone again.

During a conversation shortly after Holmes’ return, he had thought—but it would do no good to dwell on that now. Holmes had always been good at acting. Perhaps that entire conversation had been simply that—an act. It certainly didn’t mesh with the vitriol he had been yelling—they had been yelling at each other—a moment before.

There was nothing for it, Watson decided. He would not stay where he was not wanted, would not inflict his presence on the only person he cared about. He needed to pack a bag before Holmes realized he had gone upstairs instead of down.

He limped back down the stairs a few minutes later, a small valise with essentials in hand and most of his bedroom’s belongings packed and ready to return or send for at a later date.

He paused on the landing, considering a last word with Holmes, a farewell to the friendship they had shared for fifteen years, but thought better of it. Holmes had made his stance painfully obvious, and such an act would likely result only in another argument—and more pain, for him at least. He continued slowly down the stairs.

Lost in his thoughts of where he was going to go, he nearly ran into Mrs. Hudson as she rounded the corner to climb the stairs. 

“Oh, my apologies.” His voice sounded flat even to himself, and he wondered at that. He used to be able to affect any emotion he wanted—or at least hide what he was really feeling. It had been necessary, in the wake of Mary’s death, to appear to be returning to normal. Had he really forgotten how to hide his thoughts in less than a year?

“Doctor?” So many questions lay in that one word, and he flushed. Of course, she had heard everything. How could she not, with the way he had been shouting?

“I’m sorry you heard that, Mrs. Hudson, and I apologize for the shouting,” was all he was able to voice. The anger of the argument had drained long ago, leaving only emptiness in its wake.

“Doctor, he wouldn’t want you to leave,” she insisted on seeing the valise in his hand.

The emptiness gave way to a brief flicker of grief, and when he finally voiced a response, she barely recognized his voice, so despondent was it. “He made his view quite clear, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll send for the rest of my things when I’ve found a place.”

He hurried past with a quiet farewell, not answering when she asked where he was going. He didn’t know, himself. Trying to hide his own grief and shame, he completely missed the worry and anger written on her face.

Pausing only to leave a note of apology on Holmes’ hat, the front door of 221B Baker Street shut behind him with a soft click. He felt another piece of himself shatter at its heartbreaking finality.

It took everything in him not to look back.

Walking slowly down the street, he wondered where he could go. The few friends he had made at the Yard were by no means close enough to ask a bed for the night, except for Lestrade. He and Lestrade had become close friends in the years Holmes had been gone, and Lestrade had given him a place to stay once before, when his keys had fallen out of his pocket to leave him at the mercy of a January snowstorm. He had nearly turned for the Inspector’s house before remembering Lestrade was in Brighton with his family for another week. 

Hopkins, then? Or Gregson? No, Hopkins was on that assignment up north, and Watson couldn’t countenance going to Gregson. They had never been the best of friends, and the last case had contained more snide remarks than mystery.

He ended up in a cheap hotel, foregoing the meal for which he had no appetite to sit in his room and consider his options. Having left his checkbook in the sitting room, he needed to make his funds last. The money he had on hand would only last him three nights, if he skipped meals—not that that would be difficult. Caught in his precursor to a Black Mood, Watson doubted Holmes had even noticed his lack of appetite since the nightmares had spiked a few days before.

The first thing to do in the morning, he decided, would be to start going to the various hospitals and clinics around town, hoping one of them would have need of him. Considering all the medical schools had just released a fresh round of graduates the week before, though, he had little hope of landing a paying job. He was just grateful the weather was warm. It would be over a month, perhaps two, before he would have to worry about the colder weather.

He frowned. He had hated sleeping in a tent in Afghanistan, but there _was_ a secluded corner of Regent’s Park that he had noted once as being safe enough, if the need ever arose. He shoved the thought out of his mind and rolled over on the lumpy mattress. He would cross that bridge when—if—he came to it.

If nothing else, he mused, he could go back to the small town in Scotland where he had grown up. He had no family remaining, had actually left the town hoping to never return, but the Watson name was well known there. Surely, he could find something, and that sounded better than rattling about London without a job, perhaps even better than rattling around London _with_ a job.

He would give London five days. Lestrade would be back by then, and he would stop on his way to the train station to say goodbye. He certainly had no other reason to stay in a town full of memories. Goodness knows the only reason he had still been in London when Holmes returned was because he had yet to find a buyer for his practice after Mary died. What was the point in staying in a city where every street corner held more painful memories than grime?


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes was frantic.

Four days had passed since Watson had walked out and not returned, since Holmes had driven him away.

Holmes had searched everywhere. He had tried the hospitals first, with no luck. The doctor he had talked to had remembered Watson coming in asking for a job, even going so far as to remember that the Doctor had looked somewhat haggard, but they had just filled all available positions, he explained. Watson had thanked him for his time and left, presumably to search elsewhere.

The other hospitals and clinics all told him much the same thing: yes, Doctor Watson had come in two or three days before. No, they, the hospital workers, hadn’t seen him since.

“Sir, are you alright?” the doctor at the last place had asked when Holmes had blanched after hearing this news yet again.

“Fine,” Holmes had snapped shortly. He hurried out the door only to sink down onto a bench around the corner.

Watson frequently went for a walk after their arguments, always coming back in a few hours or, at most, the next day, and usually offering a sincere apology for whatever they had argued over even though it was rarely his fault. Even after hearing the Doctor pause outside the sitting room without entering, Holmes hadn’t thought twice when he heard the front door click shut. He was well acquainted with Watson’s ‘bull pup’ and knew that trying to confront him too early after an argument would be counterproductive. Better to let him cool off, first. After finishing and cleaning up his experiment, he had waited up, expecting to hear Watson’s uneven steps ascending the stairs any minute.

When supper passed without Watson’s return, he had wondered. When midnight came and went, he started pacing. Had something happened? Maybe Watson had decided to stay somewhere else for the night? That was it, he decided as it crept closer to dawn. He would be back for breakfast.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when Watson still hadn’t returned, that he really started to worry.

Where could he have gone? Holmes had thought over what he remembered of their argument, looking for clues as to where Watson would have decided to go, but nearly threw his pipe in disgust. He didn’t have enough data. He had been so focused on his experiment he had barely paid attention to anything else. It had been over a fortnight without a case, and he was grasping at anything to stay occupied, anything to drive away the Black Mood he could feel approaching.

Well, he certainly had something _now_ , he berated himself. _Where_ was Watson?

He had paced in front of the fireplace for hours, turning over ideas and listening desperately for Watson’s tread on the steps. Finally, as the breakfast hour came and went with no sign of Watson, he had thrown his pipe down and hurried for the stairs. It had certainly not escaped his notice who else was absent this morning.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he had bellowed from the top of the stairs. “Mrs. Hudson!”

Her door had remained shut, slight noises from the other side continuing as though all was normal, as though Holmes wasn’t bellowing down the stairs in the manner that many times she had said she despised.

Nonplussed at her lack of response, he had hurried towards the noise coming from the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson!” He burst into the kitchen to find her washing dishes and nearly froze at the quick deduction. She had cooked and eaten, already? Then why—?

He brushed it off, not caring about his own meal right then, anyway. “Mrs. Hudson, did Watson tell you when he would be back?”

She had stared at him as if he had just asked if she would teach him how to fly, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Well, that’s rich, coming from you!” she snapped before he could ask, and he nearly stepped back from the force of her ire. “And after what you said yesterday! Who gave _you_ the right to decide who _my_ lodgers are?!”

“What in blazes are you talking about?”

She had glared at him. “You don’t even remember, do you? I suppose you’ve been in that drug again, then?”

He had continued to stare at her, not sure what she was driving at. He hadn’t touched the cocaine in months, and that only once after his Hiatus, not having had the resources to continue it while he was gone, nor the reason (yet) to resume it in earnest once he returned, but she had barreled on before he could attempt to voice this.

“Go look in his room. I’m sure your precious _deductions_ will tell you all you need.” With that, she had turned back to tidying her kitchen, dismissing him even as her anger remained visible in every movement.

Dreading just what he might find in Watson’s upstairs bedroom, Holmes had bolted up, taking three steps at a time to stand in Watson’s doorway. Horror filled him as he stared into the room, his gaze darting around to see more of what _wasn’t_ there than what was. Watson’s revolver was missing from its normal place. The walking stick he had been using the day before was there, near the bed, but his heaviest cane was missing. His smallest valise was gone, as well as the more essential of his belongings, including four changes of clothes and two journals, and all of Watson’s luggage carriers were laid out on the bed, containing everything from his bedroom. He had packed everything except the items from the sitting room.

Holmes tried not to sag against the doorframe. What had he done? A piece of the argument suddenly broke loose.

 _Get out!_ A moment of silence, then a quiet, _As you wish._

He nearly flinched with the force of that memory. No. _No!_

He had run down the stairs faster than he ever had during their cases, barely remembering his hat in his haste to get out the door, only to have something hit the ground as he reached for the door handle. He had looked down to see a small, folded piece of foolscap next to his foot.

He picked it up with a faint glimmer of hope. Maybe Watson had written down where he had gone? The faint hope withered as he scanned the few, horribly formal, words that filled the small scrap of paper.

_I apologize for losing my temper. I was just trying—never mind that. It failed, anyway, and I had no right to snap at you like that because my own plan failed._

A drop of ink marred the end of that last word. His pen had hung there for a long while as he searched for something else to write.

_Thank you for coming back, for one more year. Maybe I will read of your future cases in the paper._

_John H. Watson_

Holmes’ hand clenched, crumpling the paper. _Watson_ was apologizing for _Holmes’_ actions. His eyes landed again on the later part: “… _read of your future cases_ …” No. Not acceptable. The cases were _theirs_ , not _his_. Watson should be there _with_ him, not _reading_ about them later! He reached again for the door, dropping the foolscap in his haste and not bothering to pick it up.

He knew where Watson would go first.

Four days later, however, he was still looking. It seemed he had continually missed Watson, no matter where he looked. Lestrade’s house had been dark, empty. No one at the Yard had seen him. None of the hospitals where he had applied to work had accepted him, and even the few Irregulars that remained denied knowing where he was.

He was beginning to wonder if Watson had left London. But where would he go? His brother had been the last of his family, driven to drink after the accidental death of their parents just before Watson had left for India. Where could he have gone?

Holmes was getting up from his bench to check at the ticket office—the train to Aberdeen had departed the day before—when a young boy about ten years of age sprinted up to him, panting.

“Charlie! What is it?”

“Mr. ‘Olmes!” he gasped out. “Oi think we found ‘im!”

“You think?!” Holmes found himself towering over the boy in his urgency. He quickly took a step back.

Charlie never noticed as he leaned over, trying to catch his breath, and it took every ounce of control for Holmes not to snap at him.

“Back corner o’ Regent’s Park,” Charlie finally got his thick Cockney out around his panting. He had obviously been running since Baker Street, if not further. “Tim Minor ‘eard a member of Bradstreet’s gang, givin’ a warnin’, loike, about avoidin’ ‘n ol’ soldier toff ‘o’s stayin’ down there. ‘E already told one of the gang to scarper, tha’ ‘e wouldn’t be there long and iffen they let ‘im alone ‘e’d return the favor. Oi ‘aven’t checked, came straight to yew, loike yew said ta, but it sounded loike ‘im.”

Holmes remembered a case years before that had ended in Regent’s Park, one in which they had found their target had set up a camp of sorts in a secluded corner that happened to have a small stream fed by runoff from the lake. When Holmes had commented on the location, Watson had replied with ways the man should have set up his camp, such as moving to the other side of the stream where one could use the bank to prevent anyone from approaching from that side.

Holmes deposited a large coin in the lad’s hand. “Well done, Charlie. Split this with young Tim, and tell the others to come by this evening for their wages.”

His eyes widened when he saw the denomination of the coin. “Cor! Thanks, Mr. ‘Olmes!” He disappeared into the crowd, and Holmes hurried towards the park.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a simple matter for Holmes to find the small bivouac hidden in the trees of a remote corner of Regent’s Park. The army-regulation camp blended perfectly with the surroundings, but Holmes easily picked out Watson’s footprints in the surrounding earth. He had no problem following the faint traces to the temporary camp even in the fading late-evening light.

He did, however, have trouble getting close.

“Who’s there?”

The voice rang out as soon as he came within fifty feet, relieving in its familiarity while disheartening in its hollowness. Holmes hadn’t heard Watson sound that way since his return the year before, and its emptiness stopped anything Holmes had thought of saying before he could form the words.

He swallowed, hard, trying to get rid of the strange lump in his throat. It didn’t work.

Unable to speak, he stepped into the clearing. Watson stood in front of a tarpaulin he had stretched between two trees. Slightly haggard, and thinner than Holmes had expected him to become so quickly, Homes could tell he had moved around a lot, but Holmes would not have been able to deduce purely by Watson’s appearance that he had been sleeping under a tarpaulin in Regent’s Park. His suit was fresh, and he was just as clean-shaven as he would have been at Baker Street.

Using one hand to prop himself up with his stick, Watson had the other in his pocket, obviously fingering his revolver. His defensive stance relaxed minutely when he recognized Holmes, but he remained silent, staring blankly. 

So accustomed to being able to read Watson’s thoughts with ease, Holmes found it disconcerting when Watson pinned him with that impenetrable look. How could he have hurt his Boswell badly enough for him to raise the defenses he had dropped a year ago?

Uncomfortable being the object of that gaze, Holmes fidgeted, then cleared his throat, trying to find what he wanted to say while hoping his nervousness remained hidden.

“Your bags are packed,” he said after a moment. _I wish they weren’t._

Watson stared at him, noting Holmes’ anxious movement but revealing none of his thoughts. “My train leaves tomorrow. They’ll be out of your way soon enough.”

Holmes nearly choked. “Your…” the word tried to stick in his throat, finally coming out rather strangled, “ _train_?” _Please, no!_

“No reason to stay,” was the simple, toneless response. His face remained carefully expressionless, but Holmes could almost hear him wondering what about that sentence had so affected Holmes.

The words to either refute the statement or answer the unasked question refused to come, but he finally got another question around the lump in his throat. “How long have you been here?” _Will you come home?_

“Couple days.”

Holmes groped for words, something, anything to get across that he hadn’t meant what he had said, that he hadn’t _wanted_ Watson to leave.

“Are you alright?”

He could have kicked himself. Why could he not just apologize?

Watson merely huffed a hollow facsimile of a laugh and turned away, leaning heavily on the stick leaving dimples in the soft earth.

He was leaving again, something in Holmes chimed. He would move his camp now that he had been found, and he would be gone the next day. Holmes managed to force out two words.

“Come back?” It was as close as he could come to voicing the words, and he desperately hoped Watson understood what he was trying to say.

Watson froze mid-step, obviously trying to decide if he had heard correctly.

“Come…home?”

“Why would you want a meddlesome cripple of a soldier who can’t leave the war behind?” Watson asked without turning around, small quantities of bitterness and resignation creeping into his voice.

The new emotions were hardly any better than the carefully blank tone he had been using, and Holmes flinched, kicking himself for not paying attention to his words, for flinging information Watson had entrusted to him back with the intent to hurt.

“Why would you forgive an egotistical detective who can’t figure out how to apologize after he was too busy with that blasted chemistry set to pay attention to what he was saying?”

Watson finally turned around, looking at him with a hint of curiosity showing through the emotionless mask to which he still clung. “Why would you want to apologize? Everything you said is true.”

“No, it was _not_! You are _not_ a meddlesome cripple, and if being a soldier taught you how to do _this_ ,” he waved his hand to encompass the small bivouac that had sprung up in Regent’s Park, “then obviously you should _not_ leave it behind. And I am _glad_ you came to London!”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why should I not leave it behind?” Watson asked bitterly, choosing to ignore for the moment the bit about Holmes being glad he had come to London. “It’s been fifteen years. I should have moved on by now. I shouldn’t still be dreaming of it every night.” A stick cracked nearby, and Watson tensed, something Holmes couldn’t read flashing in his eyes. “I shouldn’t be jumping at random noises in a city park,” he forced himself to continue after a long moment. “I shouldn’t despise the smell of hot sulfur, and I shouldn’t still be worrying that a memory is going to take over and make me attack someone who startles me.”

Holmes felt lower than dirt. Not only had he not even _noticed_ his experiment was adversely affecting his friend, but he had also undone all the progress Watson had made since that hypnagogic regression the year before. He had undermined Watson’s confidence and destroyed his trust, and it was up to him now to rebuild it.

“You should keep it because you _learned_ from it. I have told you before that even the smallest detail could be of major importance. How many times have you commented that I could find anyone in London? Hundreds?” Watson just stared at him, wondering where he was going with this. “You _disappeared_ , Watson. For _four_ _days_. I’ve checked every hospital, every clinic, every hotel, and every acquaintance of yours I could think of. The Irregulars never saw you. Even the Yard had no idea where you were, and I would have thought you would go there first. I was about to get the passenger manifests for the trains to Aberdeen and Edinburgh when Charlie came with word that Bradstreet’s gang had been warned to avoid Regent’s Park for a few days. It took me _four days_ to find you, and when I finally got a lead, I found you in a one-person military bivouac in a park five minutes from…from where I last saw you.” A flicker of surprise crossed Watson’s face, and Holmes hoped he was getting through, hoped Watson was hearing what he couldn’t say. He took a single step closer. “Come home, Watson.”

_Please come home. Baker Street isn’t home without you there._

Watson stared at him a moment, waiting, looking, for what Holmes was unsure. Holmes stared back at him, watching his face for any hint of his thoughts.

After a long—horribly long—moment, Watson’s emotionless mask dropped a fraction, and the corners of his mouth twitched in an extremely small, hesitant version of that slow smile that Holmes so loved.

Holmes’ knees nearly buckled from the force of his relief, but he told himself it was because he had barely eaten in the last four days.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to try their hand at the argument that started all this, I'd love to see it! :)  
> Feedback is greatly appreciated on all my stories :D


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